


the trade

by q_19



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_19/pseuds/q_19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they talk</p>
            </blockquote>





	the trade

**Author's Note:**

> this was totally unplanned, started with the panic attack and it just went from there. pretty bleak in parts, probably lots of triggery stuff around depression, panic, death so be forewarned. but it turns out fairly happy so at least there's that...

Often he wakes up on the floor of the chamber, choking on ragged breaths, rising vomit. Curls into himself, tries to remember to breathe. Hears the thoughts in her voice, demanding that he get it together, that he can’t fall apart yet again. 

He remembers that was his last conscious thought that day, the day he was meant to die. Hold it together, she will see the video. As inane as that was, the thought that he could do anything after the gas got in him, took over all bodily functions. 

Quinn shakes, overcome by abject panic. Heaves rattly breaths, pain reaching deep into his scarred lungs. Ends up coughing and almost spewing as usual, swallowing back some bile by the time she walks in quickly but calmly, biting her lip in silent concern. 

For awhile he had hated it. That look she gets when this happens. Saw it as pity, guilt. Had raged against it, flung it back at her, refused to be coddled. Tried to suffer alone, hunkered down with his pain, the ever present panic. 

Yet every time she still came, sat as close as he would allow. Made contact, talked to him. It’s the voice that talked to him in his sleep, enough to pull him from the deep. And even when he fights against it, he can never win. So eventually he stopped struggling with her about it. Grudgingly accepted that she cared, that she wanted to be there. 

And now Carrie’s sitting next to him in bed, though it is still the chamber floor too. One hand on his shoulder, the other rubbing circles in that spot that soothes him. The one she found through careful testing, her hands all over him, so gentle he found himself holding his breath, sure it couldn’t be real. 

It’s hard to believe how much he can love her, even as he hates her for never giving up on him, failing to let him go. Yet when she holds him it does cure the panic, makes him remember where he is, that she’s here with him. 

His heartrate is almost back to normal, the rasp of his breath steadying slowly. And Carrie almost manages to hide that look she gets when he breathes like this, as if each laboured gasp is a stab to her heart, more painful to her than it is to him.

When the last traces of panic finally release him, Quinn exhales loudly, then groans at the effort. He lets himself relax into her touch for a moment, then pushes himself to a sitting position. 

He runs his fingers through panic-soaked hair, then looks up at her, awash in relief and shame. It’s too fucking much, he thinks for the millionth time. This is something he should be dealing with on his own, until he isn’t so fucked up, defective. 

And yet she just won’t leave, says it’s because she loves him. In exactly those words, without a single doubt in her voice. Which is stupid, impossible. Even before. Certainly now. 

“You’re doing it again,” she says suddenly, knocking him out of his thoughts. 

Quinn nods, admits it. He’s learned to be more honest with her, that it’s easier than the constant battle. 

“Stop it, Quinn,” she admonishes with a half-stern look, his favourite smile. “Panic happens. You’re still healing. Give yourself some time.”

Quinn nods, has heard it all a million times before. The thing is she’s right, it’s only been a couple months since he experienced death, shown to a worldwide audience. Probably in every painful detail to the only person that really matters. Not that he’s asked, nor has she proffered. But he knows what she’s like, that she would have watched for a signal, probably over and over. 

“Honestly, I’d be worried about you if you didn’t get panic attacks after everything you’ve been through,” she adds with a sigh. 

The thing is, often he thinks he deserved exactly what he got, except the part where he lived, found Carrie on the other side waiting for him. Not that he’s ever told her about it, or talked to anyone at all about what happened. Of course he’d been pushed to see a therapist, but he doesn’t actually talk when he goes there. Often Quinn thinks he will never be able to talk about it. But there are also moments like these, cracks in his emotional armour. 

Always when she’s around, of course. Like now. He’s worn down, vulnerable. And she’s so close, giving him that look that breaks him apart. 

That’s when it slips, everything at once. His guard, the truth. It’s not something he planned, it just happens and then he can’t take it back. 

“I deserved it,” he mutters, looks at her with eyes full of nerves. He’s never even come this close to talking about it, feels the urge to just shut down, pretend he didn’t say anything. 

But the look Carrie gives him is so devastating he stumbles, loses control. 

“I fucked up. And after all the shit I’ve done... No one deserved it more,” he says, sure she can see it’s the truth. 

Carrie frowns, gives him a look of disbelief. 

He loves her even more that, for once, she doesn’t argue, try to tell him that he didn’t deserve it. She blinks back a tear, lets another slip as she tries to formulate words. He can see the effort she is making to keep from releasing all her own sadness, fear. Trying to take it all herself, hiding her own pain beneath endless concern. Showing a selflessness, patience with him he never imagined possible. And yet she is still Carrie in every way. Sharp and challenging, heartfelt and heartbroken. 

“Do you want to tell me?” she finally asks, carefully giving him space, her hands off of him for once. 

Yet he can feel the intensity of her gaze as he tries to hold himself together, hugging his knees to his chest, eyes shut tight as the memory overtakes him yet again.

Quinn shakes his head automatically, doesn’t want to at all. It’s not something he can tell anyone. That’s what he had told all the shrinks they’d thrown his way. And it’s the truth. There’s no way he could say any of it to a civilian, a unsuspecting stranger. He can’t burden anyone with what happened to him, has to just suck it up and take it. The result of a bad fucking decision, a lifetime of bad karma. 

He already feels so fucking vulnerable, his perfect body failing him, he can’t bear to talk about how it felt, what it was like. And yet it wants release, needs to be told. So he lives in constant struggle, needing to talk about it but completely unable to. 

There are moments like these though, when she asks and he thinks it’s possible. He can’t imagine opening up to anyone else, can only show his vulnerabilities to her. Yet to tell her would just be completely selfish, isn’t something she should ever have to hear. So this is as far as he’s ever gotten, as close as he’s let her get. 

“Are you sure?” Carrie asks again, because she can tell he isn’t.

He can picture her expression from the tone in her voice, half annoyed, half concerned; remembers yet again exactly why he loves her. Even through all of it, the panic, the memories. She hasn’t let him go, refuses to leave despite his best efforts.

He wants to tell her, and still it’s so fucking hard. 

“You’ve already been through enough,” he says, as if this will deter her at all. Or maybe he’s just trying to give himself the opportunity, setting himself up. 

“I’ve been through enough?!” she replies, incredulous. “Jesus, Quinn. Yeah, well. It wasn’t pretty. But compared to what happened to you? God. Tell me, I can take it.”

Shit, Quinn thinks. It might actually be happening. There are words at the tip of his tongue. And yet he bites his lip, looks up at Carrie in despair. 

She’s wearing the exact look he’d pictured, and it makes him smile just the smallest bit. Then she tilts her head, exhales loudly. Gives him a measured look. 

“I’ll even trade,” she says with a sigh, a glance away. “If you want.”

He knows immediately what she means, is surprised by the offer. Carrie’s never said a word about seeing the video, finding him. Well, he’d gotten the basic facts, but nothing on how it was for her. He knows she’s just trying to protect him, doesn’t want to add to his burden. But he wants to know, needs to hear it from her. And this expanding need to tell her, it was only a matter of time.

So, he stops fighting back the words; starts quietly, slowly. 

“All I could think was, I fucked up. Now this is how I’m going to die.” 

Carrie looks at him surprised, like she didn’t realize the moment had come. But she doesn’t say anything, just encourages him with her look, gives him a nod to go on. 

“The whole world was going to watch me die in a pool of my own bodily fluids. But at least I had no one left who would really give a shit. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself.” 

He can see her fighting not to interject, argue. She holds it back, starts tearing up though. And he thinks how he’d like to stop making her cry one day, that maybe eventually they can put this all behind them. But until then, it was still going to be hard, and they would both have to do uncharacteristic things. Like what he’s doing now. Sharing everything he wants to keep hidden.

“They put me in the chamber. I wasn’t afraid to die... but I was fucking scared of the gas. I remember realizing how much I didn’t want you to see it, that I was fucking sorry for everything...” 

He pauses for a moment, sneaks a look at her to reassure himself. She’s teary but fierce, her usual, really. And he realizes he’s really doing it, giving it all to her. 

“That was the last thing I thought before the gas went on,” he continues. “And then... it was everywhere. Fuck. Everything fucking burned, I was choking on puke, spit, bile. I tried so fucking hard to control it but there wasn’t anything I could do.” 

Just thinking about it now almost sends him into the same cold panic he had just awoken in, makes him shudder, tense up, almost seize. 

She closes the distance between them in an instant, takes his hand in hers and grips it tightly. 

“Hey, you’re safe,” she says simply, rubbing his knuckles calmly. “You can stop if you need to.” 

He shakes his head, grounds himself to her. Connects with whatever it is in her that keeps him going. He’s gotten this far with the story, he needs to finish it now, have it done with. 

“I remember hitting the ground, completely losing control. But by then I wasn’t thinking anything,” he says, remembering how it feels to die, the cold overtaking his body.

Quinn pauses, wonders if he’s really going to tell her the rest. Looks at Carrie cautiously, tries to read her expression. 

She’s sad but stoic, her ever expressive eyes so fucking full of love for him that it bolsters his courage, pushes him on.

“I should have died there,” he states darkly, absolutely sure. “There was no point in saving me. Whatever it is that came out of that chamber, it’s not me, it never will be.” 

Again Quinn’s sure she’s going to argue, tell him that he’s going to recover. Her stubbornness about it is all that keeps him going somedays, her determination that he can get better. But this time she stays quiet and he can no longer read her expression. But he lets her slip up right next to him, wrap her arms around him as tightly as she can. 

He’s trembling beneath her touch, and it’s not just the lingering effects of sarin and panic. This emotional rawness, exposing it to her. He doesn’t want pity. But he still wants her. As much as he hates himself for it, thinks he should let her go. 

But Carrie holds him in her arms, mutters into his hair. 

“Well, at least one of us is glad you’re still here,” she says with a sigh. “And I can be thankful enough for the both of us. For now at least.” 

And the thing is, it still has an effect. No matter how many times she tells him how thankful she is that he didn’t die, it still makes him feel good for just a moment before it fades into the usual self-recrimination.

It’s the same with her touch, the way she can’t keep her hands off him, as if always needing to reassure herself he’s still there. It took him awhile to let her just hold him, something he would never have even imagined before all of this. But now he’s surrendered to it too, to how safe it makes him feel. Loved, cared for. Whether he deserves it or not. He lets himself have it because she wants to give it to him. Never could say no to her. Especially not when she’s in so close, part of his every ragged breath. 

Usually by now he would have pushed away, unable to withstand the closeness. Would have started an argument with her, told her that he wasn’t worth her effort. It’s the easiest way to get a rise out of her lately, guaranteed to get him some space from her ever-present concern. 

But this time when the urge comes to push away, Quinn asks himself why. Why he needs to deny himself this thing he so desperately wants. He may not deserve it but she thinks he does. And that’s almost enough to make him reconsider his own worth, that she can still think this of him, with everything she knows, the way she knows him. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” he admits, barely audible. His heart catches as he says it and he thinks how he’s never said anything like this to her before, how exposed he feels. 

She could tear him to pieces right now, hurt him in so many ways. And yet Carrie just holds him even tighter, shields his wounded soul. Huffs a sharp laugh in that way she does, mutters into his hair again. 

“I was just thinking the same thing,” she says. “God, I think I would have lost my mind.”

*

Carrie’s sitting in the bed, holding a shaky Quinn in her arms, trying to take in everything he’s just said to her without falling to pieces. She’s never seen him so raw, vulnerable. Is infinitely impressed with him for opening up, finally talking about it. It’s just all part of what she loves about him, his courage in the face of difficult circumstances, his ability to persevere, his willingness to be expose his frailties to her. 

She knows it was probably easier for him to face the actual gas chamber than to tell her about it, is still shocked that he trusted her with it. She feels the adrenaline still coursing through his body, the tenseness in his muscles under her touch. He expects to be hurt, she realizes yet again. That damned low self-worth, this thought that he deserved it all. 

It kills her that he can seriously think this, instantly brings tears to her eyes. She thinks of all the things he really deserved, what she wishes she could have given him when she lost him the first time. Love, concern, appreciation. A million other things after everything he’d done for her, the way he’d come back to her. Even after how she had treated him, how angry he had been. 

But at least now she can give him this. The warmth of her skin against his, her physical presence telling him it’s alright. It had taken a long time for him to accept it at all, any comfort or touch. Yet it’s okay because anything with him is a win now, a little more to love him for. 

She really would have lost her mind, Carrie thinks. At least for a time. She let him walk away, die for her. At least that had been his original intent, just played out in a way no one could have ever anticipated.

He thinks she can’t love him for all his brokenness, doesn’t understand it make her love him more. That he does this at all, battles as hard as he does. She’s fucking dazzled by him every day. 

Like now, baring his fucking soul to her. Calming under her touch. 

Carrie takes a deep breath, lets go of him but sits close still. Exhales loudly, wipes away a tear. She’s been trying not to cry about him lately because she knows he hates it, has been focusing on the future and not the past. But then again, it’s the past she’s about to talk about, and there’s absolutely no way she’s going to manage to not cry.

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asks, half hoping he will say no. 

But Quinn just gives her that expectant look, like he’s ready for anything. Which at least makes her smile, because it’s just so him. 

And fair is fair. She just doesn’t know where to begin. 

Thinks about it for a moment, lets herself remember how bad it had been.

“You disappeared,” she starts, takes a deep breath before continuing. “I should never have let that happen. And then things got so crazy, I couldn’t fucking look for you.”

Carrie feels the guilt of it all over again. He had been in her care and she let him go. And then the next she saw of him was the video. The thing she can never unwatch. 

“Then finally I could, and I was at your garage. Looking for something, anything when I get a text to get to a tv. So I go to this cafe and there’s a crowd watching this video, the group making demands. And then...” 

She hesitates, swallows back the surging emotion. Looks at Quinn to remember that he’s there, mostly okay before she pushes on, forces herself to open up.

“I almost couldn’t understand what I was seeing. I guess I went into shock and I couldn’t believe it, even though I knew what it meant. Like I was so fucking sad I had to contain it or I would lose it completely, never get it back.” 

She still remembers that inability to think that he was dead. Even though rationally she knew it, emotionally she couldn’t bring herself to it. And it hurts even now, with him sitting beside her, relatively healthy and whole. 

Carrie’s lost in her story, doesn’t notice Quinn slip his hand into hers until the warmth of his fingers brings her back to the present for a moment. 

She gives him a sad smile, a look that says how hard it is to remember. It feels so morbid to tell him about it too, but he obviously wants to know, deserves her honesty. 

“I watched you die, so many times Quinn,” she says, tears coming to her eyes as she sees the fucking video in her head, the one she has her own nightmares about. “Until I had to believe it, accept that I’d done something inexcusable. I lost you. You told me to leave it alone and I dragged you into it and let you die in the most horrifying way I can even imagine.” 

The tears are fully on now, she’s really let it all go. God. It had been that bad. Worse probably. 

Quinn still doesn’t say anything, just looks at her with concerned eyes, the ones that say he’s somehow to blame for everything. And she thinks he really is beautiful, that she somehow got a fucking miracle out of all this shit.

“Oh god, Quinn,” she stammers, closing her eyes at the memory. Finding him, seeing at him in the chamber, his eyes rolled back, covered in everything. She remembers being almost nauseous from grief, trying to touch him through the glass. Shakes her head, remembers how helpless she had felt, nothing there except complete despair.

“I found you. You were dead.” 

She stops. Fights back the raging sadness, tells herself he’s okay, right here. 

He grips her hand tighter and she wonders how it’s him supporting her through this telling, how he can bear to hear any of this. She doesn’t want him to have to carry this too, along with everything else he has endured. 

But it’s just who he is, who he’s always been to her. Always willing to do anything for her, no matter the cost to himself. 

“I was just.. gone. I had really lost you for good. In exchange for my own safety. Like always.” 

She feels his hand start to sweat, the tension rise in his skin. 

“Carrie,” he mutters admonishingly, shakes his head at her tersely. 

She’s impressed he’s managed to hold it back this long, hasn’t interjected with any arguments about how none of it is her fault. And now she’s almost done, determined to get through it.

“You think you deserved this, Quinn? Well, I fucking deserved every bit of what I got. You were hurt and I let you go. You died on my watch and I’ll still never forgive myself for it.” 

She looks at him, can tell he is struggling not to say anything, wants to fight her on all points. But, as always, he does his best for her, manages to only look incredibly frustrated, full of concern. Silently encourages her to go on, senses she still has more to say. 

“But then it happened. You moved,” she says, a smile making its way into her teary expression. She looks at him then and Quinn doesn’t glance away as he usually does. Meets her gaze with his slightly furrowed look, like he still doesn’t believe this is how she feels. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been happier in my life,” she adds. Of course it had still been bleak, he was so sick it made her ache to just look at him, think what he’d been through. And then they had to decide if they would wake him up, risk everything for information about the attack. 

She’s never told him about it and he’s certainly never brought it up. Though she’s sure she saw the recognition in his eyes, that he had been aware of her for at least a moment. She figures he’s forgotten about it, probably never even registered it at all after crashing right after. 

Fuck. That had almost been worse than watching the video, finding him in the chamber. She let them wake him up, because she told herself it’s what he would want, that he’d be the first to take the risk. Called him to the surface, hurt him yet again. For nothing in the end, except more guilt, more pain. 

“You were so sick,” she says, bites her lip in remembering. “And we woke you up anyways.” 

Her eyes shimmer yet again at the desperate rasping that had come from his damaged lungs, hearing him fight just to breathe. 

“I thought it was the right thing to do. But I was fucking wrong as usual,” she adds, feeling the self-recrimination yet again. 

Quinn doesn’t say anything for awhile, stares at the wall. She wonders if he’s just taking it in, if he blames her too. But then he turns, looks at her soulfully. 

“I remember. I heard you,” he says. “I’m glad you tried.” 

She’s a little taken aback that he remembers, maybe a touch embarrassed. But she meant what she said, has been waiting here for him ever since. So maybe it’s okay that he knows, incredibly endearing that he remembers. 

“You woke up for me,” she says with a sad smile. 

Quinn nods, doesn’t argue for once. 

“Yeah,” he replies quietly, with just the hint of a grin. “Anything for you, Carrie.”

She wonders how it’s possible to suddenly love him this much, if she’d just never let herself go there before, if she was really such a terrible person he had to die before she saw his worth. And just as he thinks he doesn’t deserve his second chance, she knows she doesn’t really deserve hers either. But they’ve each been given a miracle that the other thinks is deserved. So really they just need to trust in each other. Which is what they had all along anyways, what set the foundation for the love she now feels. 

Carrie lays her head on his shoulder, unsure what to make of everything that just transpired. She almost can’t believe it, that they had each managed to tell their experience without any arguing, refutation of basic facts. And though she’s not entirely free of the ever present guilt, it’s a relief that he knows it all now. Everything she went through, how much it hurt to lose him. 

And he can try to think he’ll never be himself again, will never be whole. But the truth is he is more precious to her in his current form than he ever was as her perfect assassin, the guy she counted on. Sure, he’s often angry, anxious, seemingly ungrateful. But he’s also caring, vulnerable, absolutely heartbreaking in his attempts at putting her off. 

“I know you don’t want to believe it, Quinn,” she says. “But you aren’t any less you than you’ve ever been before. At least not to me. And I should know.” 

It’s absolutely the truth, the core of Quinn has always been the same. And now she’s finally recognized it, claimed what was always hers anyhow. 

Of course he doesn’t believe her entirely, shrugs and smiles at her in that way that says he’s pretending to agree so they don’t have to argue about it. But it’s still progress, just makes her love him all the more when she sees how hard he’s trying for her, despite all his physical and emotional scars. 

They sit like that for awhile, her head on his shoulder, his arm pulling her tight. It’s as close as he’s let her get and she relishes the feel of him next to her, the knowledge that he’s safe. 

And then just as the moment is ending, Carrie hears a little thump, raises her head and looks at Quinn. Smiles without any sadness for once, wipes the last lingering tears from her eyes. 

“Ready for the small human?” she asks, already knowing the answer. 

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles in return. A small but genuine one, absolutely perfect to her. 

Frannie comes bounding in, all pink pajamas and red curls. Launches herself into the bed without a word, snuggles into the both of them, sharing her love equally. 

The delight she sees on his face whenever he’s with her kid is almost too much, absolutely kills her. For someone who basically claimed to be unfit to be a parent he is unapologetically full of love for Frannie, will do absolutely anything for her. And Frannie’s adored him since Carrie brought him home with her, after he was finally well enough to travel. 

It’s moments like these she wonders how the hell it actually came together, how she can feel so much happiness just being there, the two most important pieces of her life safe and in her arms. It’s nothing she ever expected for herself, knows she has to make it last as long as she can. 

Carrie kisses Frannie on the forehead, then can’t help herself, does it to Quinn as well. He’s obviously surprised by doesn’t resist, even smiles a bit at her gesture. 

“Breakfast time?” she asks. 

Frannie grins and nods, jumps a couple times up and down on the bed before bouncing onto the floor, waiting patiently for them to get up too. Carrie gets up next, pretends not to watch as Quinn lifts himself slowly out of bed, stumbles a bit with his steps, gasps involuntarily at a spasm of pain. 

It’s still hard to watch him struggle but she just has to remember how much better he is already, that he’s improving every day. He takes a harsh breath, bites down on his lip and starts taking controlled steps, sweat already building at the effort. 

When he gets out the door Frannie is waiting for him at the top of the stairs, offers him her little hand. And the sight of them holding hands, walking down the steps one at time, is something she will treasure forever.  
 They get to the bottom of the stairs and Frannie lets go, her self-appointed duty done. But before Quinn can wander off too, Carrie grabs him lightly by the shoulder, turns him around to face her. 

He looks confused, a little concerned. And she thinks maybe this is a terrible idea, that she’s waited this long for a good reason. 

But all this talk, opening of brutal wounds. She thought it would weaken him but he seems to have come out of it stronger. And it meant everything to her that he confided in her, trusted her with it. 

It takes him another second to catch on, then just a microsecond to make a decision. She sees fear flicker in his eyes for just the barest of moments before he gives into it, lets her put her lips to his, starts to respond so nervously her heart breaks a little. 

She pauses for a split second, bites gently at his upper lip.

“Relax, you know what to do,” she murmurs, as she runs her thumb against his skin, in that spot that makes him feel safe. 

She feels him smile, relax just the tiniest bit. And this time when she starts the kiss he responds right away, even steps closer to her, runs his fingers through her hair. 

It doesn’t last long due to a carton of spilt juice, his damaged lungs fighting for breath. But fuck is she ever thankful for it, for every single moment she has with him. 

So Carrie ignores the juice, kisses him again. Tells herself she has a second chance, that this time she’s going to get it right.


End file.
